


not unless you mean it

by Amymel86



Series: touch changes everything [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Political Marriage, Smut, but with feelings that they're only just now realising, kinda awkward smut, making an heir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 03:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20539652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/pseuds/Amymel86
Summary: Does he still see her as his sister? Does Sansa want him to?***A continuation to 'our bodies betray us'.





	not unless you mean it

**Author's Note:**

> this is very rough but I hope you enjoys it! Thank you to all those who had left a lovely comment on the first fic in this series! I love you all!!

Sansa wishes she could have a book open before her on the furs as she waits for Jon to ready himself. Not that she’s bored or that he takes a long time at all, it’s just... it’s become very distracting since they started this funny little dance of theirs. She cannot help but focus on the jostling sounds of his hand or the way his breath becomes ragged. She shouldn’t even think of it, she shouldn’t be intrigued, and yet she is. Sometimes, Sansa is curious enough to want to turn around and look at him, watch him in his ministrations, the way he pleases himself before they join and he spills inside her. Quickly chastising herself, she feels her cheeks aflame. Jon is-... _was_... her brother. Husband or not, she shouldn’t be curious about such things.

Does he still see her as his sister? Does Sansa want him to?

She’s lost in thought when a warm hand comes to her hip. It’s his way of letting her know he’s close to completion. Sansa tilts her hips and parts her legs a little, leaving her feeling incredibly exposed – though she doubts Jon is even looking. He’s probably staring straight ahead or has his eyes closed tight to what he is about to do. Is he thinking of other women as he attempts to get a babe on his sister-wife? Sansa doesn’t like the way that particular thought weighs heavy in her chest like a millstone.

He slips inside her easily now. No longer accompanied by pain, not after a full moon of trying. That very first night, Sansa had been sore but happy that they were able to complete the act. She’d asked him how soon they could do it again, knowing that her chances of conceiving were more favourable the more of her husband’s seed she would receive. Jon had flustered, wearing an expression she couldn’t quite read as he hastily laced up his breeches. _“Not tonight,”_ he’d muttered, leaving her soon afterward. Sansa had heard talk that he’d spent the night drowning himself in ale, no doubt disgusted with what it was they’d just done.

He doesn’t seem to have much issue with it now, though. Despite his initial reaction, Sansa had told him that they should try to complete the act as often as they could and sometimes he's known to visit her thrice in one day! This evening actually being the fourth time today – once after he’d murmured low in her ear while breaking their fast that they could slip away before the day’s duties began, twice after he’d come to her solar fresh from his after-training bath, thrice when he came to her this evening, and now he’s stayed, supping an ale at her fireside until he’d confessed that they could perhaps perform once more before retiring to bed. Sansa knew that men had appetites of this sort, but this is ridiculous!

Not that she minds – she desperately wants his babe, after all.

Jon’s hand softly strokes her hip as he enters her with a groan. She chances a glance over her shoulder, thinking to find him with tightly closed eyes and is surprised to see him seemingly enraptured by the sight of their joining. She watches him. He bites down on his lip and furrows his brow in concentration as he continues to watch how his thrusts make her bottom jiggle. His hair is falling in his eyes and she has the odd urge to brush it away as he pants and moves inside her.

Her pulse thunders between her ears when Jon lifts his gaze to meet with hers. Sansa thinks she should look away, ashamed. Or, perhaps he should? Neither of them do, however. Their eyes lock and Jon begins to thrust in earnest, jostling her where she’s bent over the side of her bed. It won’t take long – it never takes long. That’s the whole point of doing this the way that they do – so that they needn’t be joined for longer than is necessary. And yet, as Jon continues to hold her attention, staring into her eyes with his darkened gaze, she begins to wonder what it might be like for Jon to take her as he might a lover? With kisses and caresses, and for him to cover her body with his and move inside her for more than the few thrusts she’s become accustomed to.

He spills with a gasp and a broken moan whilst seemingly trying to keep his eyes open and on hers. The whole thing made her heart beat in a most peculiar pattern indeed.

***

He’s gotten bolder.

Jon no longer stays a few paces away while stroking himself close to completion. He stands close enough to lay his unoccupied hand upon her naked hip. He gently runs his calloused fingers across her skin and she’s starting to think that he’s not picturing a pretty serving maid, or a whore from the brothel in her place at all.

Tilting her hips and parting her thighs even wider, Sansa hears her husband draw in a breath over his teeth. He moves forward a little and suddenly it’s Sansa that’s inhaling short and sharp. He’s still taking himself in hand, he hasn’t entered her yet, but he’s close enough that she can feel the warm, blunt bump of the end of his member at her entrance.

Is he teasing her? Sansa’s nerves are alight and it occurs to her that she could push back a little and begin to take him in. What wicked, wicked thoughts! Her face begins to burn but Jon is still stroking her hip ever so gently and that, coupled with the new anticipation between her thighs Sansa finds the whole thing thoroughly hypnotic.

She’s not sure how long he’ll be there, stroking himself as the tip of his manhood repeatedly nudges and rubs at her, coating himself in her own slick for she finds she rarely needs the oil these days. He moves forward, slipping up and against the length of her cunny, the head of him rubbing that very sensitive hidden pearl that makes her gasp and squirm in the most delightful way.

“Did I hurt you?” Jon asks, stilling.

“No, no.... please,” Sansa lowers her head to the bed, feeling mortified now, “...carry on.”

He does as requested, starting off slower than before but continuing to slip against her and it all feels so startlingly _delicious _that Sansa finds herself grasping at the furs and trying to muffle a whimper. But as good as it all is, it doesn’t feel like quite _enough. _Sansa begins to move her own hips, wiggling against the friction between her thighs, screwing her eyes closed as though that could erase the fact that she were doing such a wanton thing.

Jon’s hand slips lower until he’s cupping her bottom cheek in his warm palm as she continues to writhe, rubbing herself against his length chasing that lovely, lovely feeling at her cunny. His breathing is becoming laboured now and Sansa feels like she’s reaching up, up, up, climbing an impossible height, her tummy swoops as though she’s about to crest the top of a wave – before she can get there, before she can reach the very top and fly free down the other side however, Jon’s hips begin to stutter and he lets out a series of grunts and one long groan. She feels hot spurts of his seed coat her cunny and inner thighs as he gasps for breath behind her.

“I’m sorry,” Jon pants. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-.... that wasn’t meant to happen.”

No. That wasn’t meant to happen at all.

***

“My legs ache,” she tells him when they prepare to join once more the next evening. Jon looks to her with concern, hands paused as he’s unbuckling his sword belt. “Perhaps I could... lay on my back?... this time?”

Jon’s face reddens, the effect visible even in the candlelight of her chambers. “Aye,” he gulps, nodding to himself and averting his eyes. “Whatever is most comfortable for you.”

Sansa takes a fortifying breath. She’d planned this ever since last evening when things had felt decidedly different. She no longer felt like a brood mare for Jon to mount. There was _something_ – brother or no, there was _something_. And Sansa cannot help but want to plant that something, nourish it and see if anything grows.

So, instead of bending over her bed, pulling up her nightshift and waiting. She lays back with her heart lodged in her throat, shuffling to the edge of the bed and parting her legs wide with her shift bunched up to her hips. She’s exposed – totally and utterly exposed. It’s monstrously un-lady-like of her, and yet something flutters wildly in Sansa’s tummy when she sees the look of hunger in her husband’s eyes as he takes her in, splayed out ready for him.

Jon flushes further as he nears, unlacing his breeches and pushing them down his thighs. Sansa can see a sizable bulge straining against his underthings and feels her own cheeks begin to heat when she watches him pull out his manhood, standing hard and a furious shade of pink.

“Is this alright?” Jon licks his lips as one hand finds her inner thigh and the other wraps around his stiff member. Sansa nods and the calloused palm on her leg starts to softly glide up and down her sensitive skin like he were keeping an animal calm under his touch.

With a breath held captive in her lungs, Sansa feels positively on fire. What has she become, laying herself out like this for her brother and enjoying his attentions? But he’s not her brother any longer, is he?

He’s her husband.

Jon’s eyes stay with hers as his fingers inch closer to her centre with each passing of his palm smoothing up and down the inside of her thigh. His hand curls around the very top of her leg, as close to her cunny as he can possibly get and Sansa thinks that the that the heat of his touch might possibly melt her into a puddle there on her furs.

His thumb swipes slowly up and down over her most intimate area making Sansa whimper. Jon’s mouth twitches faintly into something like a smile as he continues to watch her for any kind of discomfort, his other hand lazily stroking himself up and down.

“Don’t,” Sansa says softly, reaching down to take his wrist. Jon stops instantly, brows drawn with concern. “Don’t-“ her heart is thundering in her chest as they stare at one another, “don’t touch me so tenderly if you don’t mean it, Jon.”

Her lips part as she watches her husband move forward, carefully climbing over her, the mattress dipping with his added weight. He lowers his forehead to press lightly against her own, eyes so close she can count the faint violet flecks amongst the Stark grey. “ I mean it,” he rasps, leaning down to press his lips to hers softly. “I mean it very much, _wife_.”


End file.
